


Happy Ending

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, Sign Language, massage therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s war wound has been bothering him even more since Sherlock's death.  His physical therapist recommends massage therapy and, for once, John is following a therapist’s advice.</p><p>Edit: I changed the rating to Teen because of what happens in Chapter 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter: John

“Hi Mary,” John said, as he entered the spa, “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Business is picking up.  Holiday season and all,” she said. “We’ve even got a new guy that everyone raves about. They don’t seem to care that he can’t talk.  Most people prefer silence during their massages anyways.”

“Yeah. Is he deaf or mute?”

“Mute. My son is deaf, so I translate for him.”

“That’s good of you. I picked it up doing my rounds during my fellowship.”

“You just here for the usual Deep Tissue Massage?”

“Yeah, the shoulder’s been acting up again.”

“Alright, I’ll go get a room ready for you,” she said with a wink.

John sat down in the spa’s waiting area.  He was glad he’d taken his physical therapist’s advice to start getting weekly massages for his shoulder.  The pain had come back after Sherlock’s death and the massages had helped.  His therapist had recommended this place.  It was owned by an old friend, a Sebastian Moran, of his physical therapist.  John had only met him once, even though Mr. Moran was almost always there at the end of his sessions.  John was glad he was just the owner and not one of the massage therapists.  Something about Mr. Moran made John’s trigger finger itchy, but he couldn’t say why.  He much preferred the bubbly personality of the spa’s receptionist.  

John looked up as he heard the door open, expecting Mary to tell him the room was ready.  Instead he saw a tall man with ginger hair and a beard walk out with his client.  He appeared to be looking for Mary.  John realized that this must be the new massage therapist, and stood up.  As he walked over to offer his assistance, something about the man struck John as familiar.  John gave him a second look trying to figure it out.  He was tall, with straight ginger hair that he’d slicked back.  He wore his goatee trimmed, neat, and in style.  Black rimmed glasses framed his dark brown eyes and those eyes had a familiar shape. John shook his head, other than height and the shape of the eyes, there wasn’t anything that could be considered familiar about the therapist.  

John signed, “Can I help you?”

The other man’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  He signed back, “Yes, please.”

John translated for the other man and the client answered his questions and paid.  Mary walked back, “Oh, I see you’ve met Simon!  He’s the new massage therapist I was telling you about,” she grinned.  Well your room is ready, let’s head on back.”

Simon smiled his thanks at John and John waved as he followed Mary back to the room.  “Everyone that gets Simon raves about him,” she said. “And anyone that gets him, always requests him again.  His schedule is practically always booked.”  She continued to babble on about the new therapist as they walked down the hall.  “You’ve got Gena today.”

“Ah, good.  She knows how to put a good hurting on me,” he replied.

When his massage was over, John shrugged his jacket back on with barely a wince.  “Thanks, Gena.”

“You’re always welcome,” said the petite massage therapist, “Let’s get you settled and don’t forget to drink plenty of water today.  You know you’ll need it.”

“Yes, Sir,” he mock-saluted her.  He always left these sessions feeling much better than when he went in and enjoyed being able to feel almost human again.  He followed Gena back up the hallway to the waiting area.  He looked around, hoping to see Simon.  He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to talk to him again.  Instead he found Mary and Mr. Moran at the desk.

“Ah, Mr. Watson,” said Mr. Moran, “I hope Gena took good care of you today.”

“She always does,” said John, forcing a smile. “Shall I settle up the bill?”

“Yes, Mary, take care of that will you?  Maybe we’ve done such a good job that we won’t be seeing you again, eh, Mr. Watson?  That’d be a shame.”  
John laughed half-heartedly.  “I don’t think I’m quite there yet, Mr. Moran.”  He paid Mary.  “Have a good day.”  He looked up to see Simon and offered a friendly wave.  Simon ignored him, instead looking at his boss.

 

* * *

 

When John walked into the spa for his appointment the next week, Mary wasn’t her usual bubbly self.

“Hi Mary, everything okay?” he asked.

“Not really.  Mr. Moran disappeared last week.  No one’s seen or heard from him and he’s not answering his mobile.  It’s just not like him.”

“That’s got to be worrying for all of you. I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.  John would never have told her he was glad that the man was gone.  Something about his last words to John hadn’t sat very well with him.  

“Thanks,” she said,” You’re lucky today.  Simon’s available for your time slot, that is if you don’t mind a man as your massage therapist?”

“As long as he’s as good as you say he is, I’ll be fine,” he offered her a gentle smile.  She was obviously worried and he didn’t want to make her feel any worse. “You won’t need to translate for us.  I don’t know if you remember last week, but I actually can sign.”

“Oh, thanks so much.  There’s enough for me to handle as it is.  I’ll go get the room ready and let him know you’re here.”

John didn’t have to wait long for Mary to come and get him.  She wasn’t very talkative as they walked back to the room.  When she left him at the room, Simon was already there waiting.  

“Hi,” said John, “I’ve heard a lot of good things about your work. I hope it’s all true. This old soldier is in need of a miracle.”

A look crossed Simon’s face that John couldn’t quite place, but it was gone in an instant. 

“You’re only as old as you feel,” Simon signed back.

“Well, let’s see if you can help me feel young again,” John laughed.

“I’d like to leave the wound areas until last to make sure I can give them the proper attention, if that’s alright with you?” Simon quickly signed.

“You’re the expert.  I put myself in your capable hands,” John answered with a nod of his head.

“I’ll leave you to get ready then,” signed Simon and he left the room.

John undressed down to his boxers, folded his clothes neatly, and set them in the area designated for them.  He climbed onto the massage couch, pulled the sheet up around his waist, placed his arms at his sides, and waited for Simon.

Simon knocked.  “Come in.”  He heard Simon inhale slightly at the sight of the exit wound on his shoulder.  John was used to the reaction and it didn’t bother him anymore.  As long as there wasn’t pity following the inhale, he was fine with people’s reactions.  He knew his back was otherwise unmarked and he had kept himself in shape, so it was toned.  He had stopped letting the scars on his body embarrass him.  They were part of who he was, and he wouldn’t have led the life he had without them.

He closed his eyes as he heard Simon step up to the couch to begin.  He felt Simon began the massage by tracing small circles on John’s back and shoulder, finding the problem areas he’d need to work out before moving to John’s injured shoulder.  The touches were firm enough to do the job, but gentle at the same time. Simon’s hands ghosted down his back and back up.  John sighed.  He was going to enjoy this.  
Simon raised up and John felt him tuck the sheets into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down to just below his waist, revealing the curve of his lower back. His back was now fully exposed, and if he was honest, slightly chilly.  He knew that would change as the massage progressed and the friction of Simon’s hands against his skin created needed body heat.  He heard Simon pump the lotion into his hands from the bottle on his belt, and John prepared himself for a “good hurting”.  Surprisingly, what he experienced was far from that....

Simon turned his attention to John’s uninjured right shoulder.  John felt Simon’s strong fingers working out a knot John hadn’t realized was there.  He usually had to tell a new massage therapist when they were putting too much pressure or not enough in an area, but with Simon he didn’t have to say a word.  It was almost as if Simon somehow knew just the right amount of pressure John needed.  Simon rolled out the knot, using one hand to massage the area, while framing the muscle group with his other.  John felt a warmth flowing from Simon’s palm that was almost comforting.  No wonder so many people praised his abilities.  John wasn’t sure he’d want any other massage therapist after this, and Simon was just getting started.  

John sighed. He almost never did that during a massage, and here had done it twice.  He hoped he could stay awake so he could enjoy this and thank Simon when he was done.  Every touch felt wonderful.  His muscles slowly relaxed under Simon’s talented hands. Simon was working his way down his lower back, kneading out the tension.  This wasn’t something that the other massage therapists did.  They mainly focused on his injured shoulder.  John realized just how much he’d been missing out on.   Maybe John was imagining it, but he felt special.  Almost as if Simon was putting his whole self into making John feel better. Each touch, even though there was firm pressure behind it, felt almost like a caress.  When Simon raised John’s arm and placed it behind his back to work on the muscle group, John felt Simon’s fingers entwined with his to hold his hand in place.  Long fingers held his as Simon worked out a particular nasty knot.   

Simon lowered John’s arm back to his side and began to work on his lower back, again applying just the right amount of pressure.  John had always been sensitive in that area, and it was all he could do not to groan when Simon started working there.  John had managed to “keep it professional” before but something about the way Simon was touching him made him teeter on that line.  As if sensing that the line was about to be crossed, Simon quickly finished his work in that area.  Simon walked to the other side of the couch to begin his work on John’s left side. 

John was suddenly worried about his scar.  He hadn’t been earlier, but the way Simon had been touching him made him concerned.  Why? He soon realized the worrying was unfounded.  With Simon’s first touch of his scar, John relaxed. Simon treated the exit wound like it was priceless. He traced the lines of John’s scar, lines John himself had memorized.  But Simon’s treatment was far from the clinical investigation John had done.  Simon’s touches were almost fervent, and John thought he detected a slight tremble. Simon massaged each line of the scar individually before working on the center tissue.  The touches became almost, almost loving.  John had never had anyone pay this kind of attention to his scar.  He didn’t want it to stop and for some reason the thought of anyone else besides Simon touching his scar that way was, at the moment, unbearable.  Before he could begin to question how he was feeling or why Simon would be paying such personal attention to his scar, Simon tapped him to roll over.  John obeyed, keeping his eyes closed, afraid that if he opened them the raw emotions he was feeling might show and cause Simon to stop whatever magic he was working

Much to John’s chagrin, Simon started with the right shoulder again. Simon seemed to sense John’s dismay and paid just enough attention to the small knot he found to work it out.  Simon raised up and John heard him take a deep breath, as if preparing himself for something.  John waited; he understood what that breath meant. This was taking a lot out of Simon, and as much as John was enjoying it, he didn’t want to completely drain the man.  Slowly, Simon began to work on the entry wound.  The wound itself was not as large as the exit wound on his back, but it puckered differently, and this was where the damn bullet had entered his body. There was a reverence in Simon’s touch, gently massaging the lotion into the scar while working out the tension of the tissue and muscles beneath it.  John felt Simon’s breath on his shoulder.  He assumed that Simon was bending to inspect the wound and make sure he didn’t miss any areas.  The warm breath on his shoulder sent a shiver through John’s body and Simon pulled back. John’s eyebrows furrowed, he wished he could have controlled the shiver.  He enjoyed Simon being that close.  

John realized that Simon was done and standing behind him.  “Thank you, that was amazing.  You really are a miracle worker,” John said as he sat up.

“You’re welcome, John,” came a shaky but familiar baritone. John spun around.  Behind him was a ginger, green eyed and tearful Sherlock.


	2. Enter:Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To some, this may seem out of character but please bear with me. He is still the same Sherlock we all know and love, but this is about him and John.

****Sherlock stepped out the door, looking for Mary. It was annoying, having to rely on someone else to translate for him, but if he wanted to keep up appearances and seem non-threatening he had to continue this charade, this disguise.  It had taken him far too long to track down Sebastian Moran. It galled him to think that John’s sniper had set up shop almost under Sherlock's very nose.  And to be passing himself off in such a mundane and ordinary fashion! Ugh!  But to make matters worse, John had been coming here for weeks now and not realized the danger.****  
  
Sherlock had managed to avoid John, counting on the way Mary ran the spa to keep them from crossing paths.  But today his client had been in a bit more of a hurry than usual.  Something about not trusting her pilots further than she could throw them and needing to get back before her son came up with something else “surprising”. He was in a hurry to for her to be on her way too.  Mindless drabble, these people droning on and on about nothing. He would be so glad when he could take care of Moran and finally go home, home to John.  
  
Sherlock realized a moment too late that Mary was still back preparing the room. He inwardly cringed, knowing what that meant. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he thought to himself. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, not this close to the end goal, and certainly not in front of the man who was now walking towards him with an inquisitive look on his face.  
  
Sherlock schooled his face, knowing John saw someone familiar and prayed he didn’t look too closely. When John signed, “Can I help you?" Sherlock was surprised.  No matter how much he learned about his John, the man never failed to surprise him.  He had never known John knew sign language.  
  
"Yes, please," he quickly signed back.  
  
As they finished up Mary reappeared, briefly introduced the two of them, and summoned John back to his room. Sherlock felt himself smiling, and for the first time since before he jumped, it was a real smile.  John smiled back and waved as he followed Mary.  Sherlock heard her babbling on as they walked down the hall, the door closed behind them, and he was alone again.    
  
Thoughts and emotions tumbled through him.  Had it been anyone else, every emotion and thought would have played across their face.  No one who looked at him could possibly know how giddy he was to have just held a small conversation with the blond man who just left.  They’d never know that he was inwardly chastising himself for allowing the conversation to have happened at all.  And they most certainly would not have seen his resolve to end this soon harden.  He returned to the back to wait.  


 

* * *

 

 ** ******  
  
He tried to time the ending of John’s massage, just to see him again before he left.  He stepped through the door just in time to hear Moran’s veiled threat.  John was tense. His trigger finger twitched at the words, and knew that whether John recognized them as a threat or not, his subconscious did.  Sherlock stared icily at the back of Moran’s head.  But unfortunately as the idea blossomed in his head, he missed John waving goodbye.  


 

* * *

 

 ** ******  
  
Moran sat at his desk.  He finished up the paperwork for this front business.  On one hand, he’d be glad when he’d finished off John Watson.  It would be so gratifying to see his blood paint the walls and watch as the life drained out of those blue eyes, all while he taunted him about that bastard Sherlock.  But on the other hand, he was going to miss the perks.  He’d never been the indulgent one, that had always been Jim, but by God, he’d come to enjoy the weekly massages.  Perhaps he could still find a way to indulge when he was done.  
  
Simon knocked on his door.  “Come in,” he replied with a wave.  Simon handed him a note.  Apparently Mary and the rest of the crew had left for the evening.  Damn them!  Didn’t they know today was his regular day for a massage.  And he needed to be limber and relaxed.  Tonight was the night John always went to the pub with his bobby pal.  He’d be intoxicated and easier to take down, but he didn’t want to take any chances.  
  
“Simon,” he called out as the slim man turned to walk out, “I’m afraid you can’t leave yet.  You’re the last one here and I’m in desperate need of your skills.”  
  


 

* * *

 

 ** ******  
  
“My skills indeed,” thought Sherlock.  He smiled grimly as he walked to set up the room.  He had known Moran would demand his services once he found out everyone had left already.  That was why he had hung around.  Once the room was prepared, he appeared again at Moran’s door.  Moran led the way down the corridor and Sherlock waited outside the room while he undressed and settled himself onto the couch.  Sherlock knocked and entered upon hearing the muffled, “Come in.”  
  


 

* * *

 

 ** ******  
  
Sebastian heard Simon enter the room.  He’d heard a lot of good things about the man’s skills.  But he preferred the petite hands of the women he employed.  He’d not let another man touch him since Jim, too many memories, but he was actually looking forward to finding out if all the praise was true.  He felt Simon’s hands begin the scalp massage.  The last thing he heard was that bastard’s voice, “When you see Jim in Hell, tell him I said Hello” just before Sherlock snapped his neck with a quick twist.  
  
Sherlock set about the grim task of cleaning up and disposing of the body with a certain satisfaction.  This much he’d been planning for weeks.  When the body would wash on the shore of the Thames weeks later there was no way to identify it.  
  


 

* * *

 

 ****  
  
Sherlock waited nervously in the room for John.  He’d stayed on after taking care of Moran.  It would have looked suspicious had they both disappeared.  And today he had deliberately cleared this time slot, so he could be available for John.  There were at least a hundred different ways he could reveal himself to John, but he selfishly chose this one.  This way, if John were so upset, so angry that he couldn’t forgive Sherlock, he’d have had one time to be close to John.  One time to somehow show how he felt.  One intimate moment, this one time to give of himself to John, so that he’d have one memory to hold onto for the rest of his days.  He had once told Irene that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side, but it had been sentiment that had won the battles thus far.  Would it hold out for one more?  He took a deep breath as the door opened and John walked in.  
  
“Hi,” said John, “I’ve heard a lot of good things about your work. I hope it’s all true. This old soldier is in need of a miracle.”  
  
The words struck Sherlock in the heart.  He was immediately brought back to that day at the cemetery and John’s words, “...one more miracle, Sherlock, for me.  Don’t be...dead....”  It was all Sherlock could do to hold back his sob.  
  
Instead he signed back, “You’re only as old as you feel,” and went over a few things with John, explaining what he (Simon) wanted to do.  He stepped out of the room and quietly closed the door.  Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes.  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.  He was already letting his emotions get the better of him.  It was as if in killing Moran, the emotional dam he’d built had cracked and seeing John had broken it, all the emotions of the past years flooding him now.  He composed himself, knocked, and entered after he heard John’s “Come in.”  
  
He inhaled sharply when he saw John’s exposed upper back and scar.  It wasn’t the first time he’d had the pleasure of the sight but there was a sudden shock of realization today.   If it wasn’t for that scar, that wound, he most likely would never have met the man in front of him.  True, he wouldn’t have gone through the hell he’d been through, but he would also have never met the one person he’d grown to love and the one person who had always accepted him for himself.  The one person who was truly his best friend.  And the one person he would die for.  
  
Sherlock had learned the techniques of massage easily enough and being as perceptive as he was, had risen quickly as a preferred masseuse at the spa.  He put everything he knew about technique and John into what followed.  
  
He started by tracing small circles on John’s back, the pads of his fingers applying slight pressure, finding the trouble spots, but also memorizing the contours and the feel of the skin as he went.  In the dim light, he could barely make out the tiny amount of freckles that sprinkled across John’s back.  Gentle but firm he explored John’s back, relishing each moment, locking them as small treasures in his Mind Palace.  His hands ghosted down John’s spine and John sighed.  “Relax, rest, you’re safe now,” Sherlock thought.  
  
He rose to pull back the sheet, tuck it into the waistband of John’s boxers, and in a smooth movement in between rising and lifting the sheet; Sherlock removed the glasses and tucked them into his back pocket.  It was a risk, but he had found that when people relaxed enough they kept their eyes closed throughout the massage, and John wouldn’t be able to see his face until he turned over anyways.    
  
Sherlock added lotion to his hands and continued the massage in earnest.  He worked out the knots he’d found in John’s shoulder and worked his way slowly down John’s back.  His hands increased pressure when it was needed, and were gentle and relaxing when it wasn’t.  His eyes and hands explored the gentle dips, the firm muscles, the wide smooth expanse of skin, and he found himself as lost in the presence of John as John was in the massage.  Sometimes he found himself caressing with one hand and kneading a knot with the other.  Upon discovering a knot hiding deep in the muscle tissue, Sherlock raised John’s arm and placed it across his back to try and work it out, and in doing so he couldn’t help but lace his long, thin fingers through John’s. How foolish he had been to think that he’d be content with this one time!  He desperately hoped that John would forgive him.  
  
He reluctantly lowered John’s arm back down to his side, and worked his way down to John’s lower back.  It was a particularly sensitive area; he’d long ago overheard a conversation between John and one of his former girlfriends, so he would have to be gentle here.  But apparently it didn’t matter as he felt John tense his lower back unconsciously.  He wanted to keep John relaxed as much as possible, so he quickly wrapped up his work in the area and rose to turn his attention to John’s scar.  
  
Sherlock could finally explore the lines of the injury that led John to him.  He massaged each small, pink line inward, tracing the paths of healed skin.  He fervently mapped each tiny rise of flesh, delved into the story each one told, each a path that led John closer to meeting Sherlock that day at Bart’s and their life together.  At times, he’d find his hands trembling slightly as he worked his way around, paying special attention to the individual scars that made up the larger one.   When he finished he found himself almost short of breath and close to tears.  He stood and tapped John’s shoulder, his signal for John to turn over.  
  
As John rolled over, Sherlock quickly removed the brown contacts, throwing them into the corner bin.  He hadn’t needed them for vision, just as a disguise.  Then he saw the look on John’s face.  Even with his eyes closed, John’s emotions played across his face.  He was experiencing something deep, something special, and he didn’t want to lose it.  Sherlock just hoped that John would remember those feelings when it was time for him to open those deep blue eyes.  
  
He needed time to recover from his own emotions that had begun to surface while working on the exit wound, so Sherlock pulled his chair over, sat down, and started on John’s right shoulder, working out the small knots in his upper pectoral muscles.  A look of dismay fluttered across John’s face, as if he was disappointed that Sherlock (Simon) wasn’t working on the other shoulder, where the entry wound was.  So, he quickly finished working out the small knot and raised up, sliding the chair over to John’s left side.  He took a deep breath in, preparing himself.  This was the final part of John’s massage, and perhaps the last time Sherlock would ever touch his John.  Reverently, Sherlock applied lotion to the entry wound, slow circles massaging out the tension and willing some of his love into John’s body (silly thing, sentiment it made you imagine things were possible that weren’t).  This scar was different, no radiating scarring, just a puckering of skin where the bullet had entered.  Sherlock found his head bending over, lips coming to a stop just above the scar, so close, so close.  Close enough to plant a kiss, close enough to feel the heat radiating from John’s body, almost close enough to taste, but definitely close enough to breathe in John’s scent.  He inhaled, smelling John underneath the odor of the massage lotion.  He smelled of tea, of shampoo, of leather and his own musk, of light cologne and a faint hint of the flat.  He smelled of home.  Sherlock exhaled, his breath stirring the fine hairs on John’s chest and John shivered.  Sherlock pulled back, tears beginning to trickle down his face.  He stood up and stepped back, knowing what was about to happen.  
  
“Thank you, that was amazing.  You really are a miracle worker,” John said as he sat up.  
  
Sherlock tried to control his voice, but all that came out was a shaky, “You’re welcome, John.”  With one sentence, the last of his disguise that could be dropped, was.  Now he waited nervously for John’s reaction to the familiar sound of his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me on this. Feedback is welcome and if you're worried that Sherlock is feeling too much, stick around for the next chapter where our stubborn git rears his head again.

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended to be a one shot, but, as with a lot of my work, I leave the door open.
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, oldamongdreams and Kryptaria for sitting in Google docs with me while I wrote this. Your advice and encouragement were much appreciated.
> 
> Edit: Due to demand both from the readers and my own muse, this will now have at least 2 more chapters.


End file.
